Nothing but this, the prisoner replied, speaking courteously and quietly. That he believed he had done only his duty: and that Martin Scott had deliberately and defiantly rushed upon his own fate; and that if young, innocent, and refined ladies were to be insulted by reprobate men with impunity, the sooner the country went back to a state of barbarism the better. To this the judge replied, that if for trifling causes men might with impunity murder others in cold blood, the country would already be in a state of barbarism, without going back to it. But the trial was not to conclude without one startling element of sensation. The judge had put the black cap on his head, when a tall, proud-looking, handsome lady stepped forward and demanded to say a word in stay of the sentence. It was Mrs. Andinnian. Waving the ushers away who would have removed her, she was, perhaps in very astonishment, allowed to speak. Her son had inherited an uncontrollable temper, she said; _her_ temper. If anything occurred greatly to exasperate him (but this was very rare) his transitory passion was akin to madness: In fact it was madness for the short time it lasted, which was never more than for a few moments. To punish him by death for any act committed by him during this irresponsible time would be, she urged, murder. Murder upon him. Only these few words did she speak. Not passionately; calmly and respectfully; and with her dark eyes fixed--on the judge. She then bowed to the judge and retired. The judge inclined his head gravely to her in return, and proceeded with his sentence. Death. But the strong recommendation of the jury should be forwarded to the proper quarter. The judge, as was learnt later, seconded this recommendation warmly: in fact, the words he used in passing sentence as good as conveyed an intimation that there might be no execution. Thus ended the famous trial. Within a week afterwards the fiat was known: and the sentence was commuted into penal servitude for life! Penal servitude for life! Think of the awful blight to a man in the flower of his age and in the position of Adam Andinnian! And all through one moment's mad act! CHAPTER V. Unable to get strong. In an invalid's chair by the side of a fire, at midday, reclined Lucy Cleeve. Her face was delicate and thin; her sweet brown eyes had almost an anxious look in them; the white wrapper she wore was not whiter than her cheeks. Mrs. Cleeve was in the opposite chair reading. At the window sat Miss Blake, working some colours of bright silks on a white satin ground. As Mrs. Cleeve turned the page, she chanced to look up, and saw in her daughter a symptom of shivering. "Lucy! My darling, surely you are not shivering again!" "N--o, I think not," was the hesitating answer. "The fire is getting dull, mamma."